When the editors told me this column would appear in the fortieth anniversary issue, I thought back over my own history with Christianity Today, which spans nearly half that time. This column represents the one gust of spontaneity in my writing life. Most days I work on book projects that stretch on for a year or two. When time comes to write this column, though, I decide on a topic on deadline day.
I’ve always considered it a shame that writing is such a one-way proposition. You know what I am thinking about; I don’t know what you’re thinking about—except for the few who take the trouble to send in a letter. Most I appreciate, but a few leave me scratching my head. For this anniversary column, I thought you might enjoy dipping into my mailbag with me.
Surprisingly, many of the letters I receive have no apparent relevance to what I’ve written. Just the other week I got one that began, “Your article ‘Why I Don’t Go to a Megachurch’ is a perfect example of the state of affairs in America.” The writer proceeded in six hand-written pages to trace most of the societal problems in modern America to the fact that “religious men” no longer use the original King James Holy Bible. I’m still looking for a connection to my column.
A reader from Houston sent me clippings of all the local ads for topless dancers, exotic maids, and private lingerie models. This sort of thing never appeared in Houston papers before NASA moved to town, he assured me. He also told me that he had personally witnessed two atomic bombs detonated at Bikini Atoll in 1946. Hmm.
In a 12-page, single-spaced letter, an Englishman described his many allergies and a new program of Optimum Nutrition. Then he detailed the divine revelations he had received by observing clouds and the flight paths of certain birds. I take him very seriously—after all, he lives not far from William Blake’s home.
A reader asked me to contribute to a book on touching and hugging. She hoped I could offer “practical suggestions for how men can get comfortable offering hugs or touches of support and love to each other, maybe even to women. For instance—allow yourself to be hugged first? Find someone who’s a good hugger and observe? Touch with hand first? Don’t crush? Avoid full body contact? Know which body parts to avoid?” I declined, since I did not know the answers to most of these questions. Who said book publishing is a dying industry?
Several people have written me in an attempt to get around the normal magazine channels for evaluating freelance submissions. My favorite sent me a T-shirt with his name on it, and then a decorated cake that read, “Trapped in a bakery. Send work.” I shared a piece with the editor who mailed him the rejection notice.
Sometimes the connections to my column are all too clear. When I wrote a column titled “Christian McCarthyism,” I got several responses from people who felt I had defamed Sen. Joe McCarthy. I now have a file folder devoted to revisionist history of that Cold Warrior. (Once I met Sen. Eugene McCarthy, the 1968 presidential candidate known for his liberal and antiwar policies. Not long ago someone stopped him on a street in New York. “Aren’t you Senator McCarthy?” the stranger asked. “Why, yes,” McCarthy replied. Then came the unexpected question, “Do you still hate Communists?”)
By far the most mail I have ever received came in response to my column “Breakfast at the White House.” I stopped counting at 300 letters, perhaps three of which were positive. Readers seemed offended that a Christian would even sit down at the same table with Bill Clinton and Al Gore. Seven of the letters asked if I would have dined with Adolf Hitler. I was astonished by the vicious tone of some of these letters, until I finally figured out the writers were projecting onto me the anger they really felt toward Bill Clinton. I’d hate to read his mail. (One of these angry letter-writers also disclosed to me some important clues to the identity of the Antichrist, and enclosed a magic sponge that, when saturated with water, would reveal a telephone number where I could get help for my spiritual problems.)
My all-time favorite letter came from a reader in Seattle. He began with a few jokes about Seventh-day Adventists, and then got down to serious business. Just as C.S. Lewis had appeared to J.B. Phillips after his death, this reader had received a supernatural visit from J.B. Phillips. He had also met the composers Handel and Dvorák, and had once played second violin in an orchestra conducted by Haydn. Handel, he reported, is no longer blind, but wears thick glasses that allow him to drive a car, and he currently directs a choir at a Presbyterian church with only 33 members. Dvorák lives in the town of Edmonds, Washington.
With absolute assurance, this reader promised that if I moved to Seattle within 30 days, he would arrange a personal meeting with C. S. Lewis. That was about the time I moved to Colorado, asking that all my business mail be forwarded to the magazine’s office in Illinois.
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